


If You Said That You Wanted

by Jiksa



Series: Scenes from the Aftermath [3]
Category: Bandom, Gerard Way and the Hormones, My Chemical Romance, frnkiero andthe cellabration
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, F/M, Heartbreak, M/M, Polyamory, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:35:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22316440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jiksa/pseuds/Jiksa
Summary: Regret slams into Frank mere seconds after his orgasm does.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Frank Iero/Jamia Nestor
Series: Scenes from the Aftermath [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/234510
Comments: 28
Kudos: 103





	If You Said That You Wanted

**Author's Note:**

> The third instalment of my [post-MCR break up series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/234510). Would recommend reading the first two before reading this one.
> 
> CN: References to Mikey's addiction, a sexual interaction that feels physically/emotionally overwhelming for one party.

**24 October 2014, New York, NY. 3:42 am.**

Regret slams into Frank mere seconds after his orgasm does.

He’s still gasping for breath, pushing weakly at the mattress beneath his shaking arms and trying to keep his oversensitized dick off the soiled hotel sheets, when Gerard, who’s been unusually intense and rough and quiet as he fucks into Frank’s prostate with infuriating military fucking precision, pushes him back down in protest and hisses something like “Stay right there, Frankie, stay here for me.”

It hits Frank like heart attack, like something fragile in his chest has just been smashed apart with a sledge hammer. He bites helplessly down on the pillow beneath his face, tensing his thighs against Gerard’s thrusts, and he remembers all over again why he decided to stop taking Gerard’s calls. Everything about Gerard just hurts too much — _everything_ — Frank’s insides like a skinned bruise, even after all this time.

Gerard’s breaths are hitching like they always do before he comes, but Frank’s sore and exhausted and heartbroken and just needs it to be over. “Gee,” he hisses, jerking his hips back to meet him halfway. “Come on already.”

“You feel so fucking good,” Gerard gasps, pressing his damp face against the back of Frank’s neck and digging his nails into Frank’s hips. “Missed you so fucking much.”

“Just fucking do it,” Frank growls through gritted teeth, fighting the urge to buck him off. “Fucking come inside me. Please.”

The dirty talk does the trick, unsurprisingly, and then there’s an impossibly long moment of harsh breaths and loosening fists and words almost said, before Frank’s survival instinct kicks back into high gear.

He shoves Gerard off of himself and scoots to the edge of the bed, reaching for the cigarettes in his parka on pure instinct. He hasn’t smoked for seven months until tonight and now he’s itching for another fix like he never quit. He’ll have a last one to cleanse his palate and then he’ll throw the pack in a trash can on his way back to the hotel. 

He needs to get the fuck out of here.

He hears Gerard dealing with the condom, the rustling of bed sheets. He braces himself for the inevitable hand on his back, the soft whisper of his name, the emotional fallout of whatever the fuck they just did. He can feel every place Gerard’s been; the claw marks on his upper back, the burn of his lips, the sore throb of his ass, the dull ache in his chest. 

He’s going to be feeling him for days. _Fuck._

The bed dips as Gerard moves towards him. “Don’t,” Frank says immediately, glancing behind himself but not directly at him. “Don’t touch me.”

“Frankie,” Gerard coaxes as he settles close behind him. He’s not touching him, not yet, but the threat of physical contact is imminent. He sounds whiny and nasal and sincere. “It was good, come on.”

“It was fine,” Frank corrects flatly. It was frantic and reckless and hard. It was like riding a bicycle. It was devastating. "You got what you wanted, right?"

“Frankie,” Gerard says again and Frank fucking hates that break in his voice. Like Frank’s the one hurting _him_ and not the other way around. “Didn’t you?”

Frank digs through the pockets of his parka until he retrieves his phone. Three texts from Ed. He checks the time. Fuck. _Still talking_ , he types quickly. _All good_.

This was a fucking mistake. He knew it would be when he committed to making it. He should’ve known better than to think it could end up being anything else. He reaches for his pants on the floor. “I’ve gotta go.”

Gerard sighs, soft and sad. “Please don’t.”

Frank sorts through the random shit on Gerard’s floor until he finds his shirt. Still a messy motherfucker.

“Frank,” Gerard says, and Frank is rapidly running out of patience with Gerard using his name like that, sounding plaintive and desperate and entitled. “Stay. I’m begging you to stay. We need to talk.”

It’s an inversion of a conversation they had over two years ago, on a fucking conference call at ten in the morning. _”I can’t anymore,”_ Gerard had said on the other end of the phone, Mikey and Ray quiet beside him in LA, while the bottom fell out of Frank’s world back in Jersey.

“You don’t get what you want this time,” Frank mutters, pulling the rest of his clothes on. “Sorry to disappoint. I’m going.”

“Wait.” Gerard clears his throat. “Promise me you’ll call Mikey back, at least.”

Frank turns around to meet his eyes. He’s still naked, the covers pulled up around his waist. There’s a bruise in the shape of Frank’s mouth on his neck. At least he’s not the only person walking away from this with battle scars. “You’re just full of requests today. No.”

“He’s been clean and sober for five months now,” Gerard says. “He wants to apologize.”

Frank rolls his eyes, unable to help himself. “That is way too fucking little and way too late. I’ve put up with enough of his shit for a lifetime.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. Frank fights the urge to throw something at him or maybe punch him in the face. “Enough with this ‘he ain’t heavy, he’s my brother’ shit — it _was_ that bad.”

“He’s getting himself straight, he’s met this really amazing girl. Hear him out, let him make amends, you owe him that much.”

Frank shakes his head. “I don’t owe him jack shit.”

“He ain’t just my brother, Frank. He’s yours, too, and he’s carried you when you needed it. Take his fucking call, give him a half hour of your time.”

“No.”

“Why not? You carried me when I needed you to. Early days, Japan, Warped, the end of Danger Days.”

Frank swallows against the lump in his throat. “You got sad and suicidal. He got cruel.”

Gerard nods, biting his lips before he says, “He told me what he’d said to you.”

The reminder hits Frank like a sucker punch to the stomach. He looks down at his hands. “I’m surprised he remembers.”

“He can’t forget. He feels fucking horrible.”

“Good.”

Gerard narrows his eyes in some kind of disbelief. “You get so fucking vindictive.”

“He called me a pathetic faggot for still pining after you, cause you were never going to want me back the way I wanted you. Said I should go back to my fucking wife, like she was some sort of fucking second-rate consolation prize.”

“I know.” All of Gerard seems to soften with it. “He didn’t mean it.”

“Bullshit.”

“He fucked up. I fucked up. We all fucked up. Breakups are hard, we were all exhausted and upset and doing our best.”

Frank watches him, his hunched shoulders, his flushed face, his open palms. It’s far too late for any of this. There’s too much under the rug, too much to trip over and break their fucking bones on. “I’m still going.”

“I’m in Jersey all of next week.”

Frank’s in his parka again, scarf wrapped tight around his neck, gloves pulled tight around his fingers, parka zipped up. He freezes at the door, his hand on the handle. “I don’t care.”

“I'll call you,” Gerard whispers.

Frank squeezes his eyes shut, fighting the urge to take his hand off the door handle, to shed his boots and parka and crawl back into bed with him. “Don't bother,” he says instead, and then he slams the door shut behind him on the way out.

— 

Ed’s been waiting up, that much is evident when he lets Frank into his hotel room. Ed’s hat has been carefully placed on top of his unopened backpack and he’s still wearing the clothes he wore to the show earlier. The TV’s playing some cop movie from the 80’s with the sound turned down low. Evan’s asleep on the couch, slouched over the arm rest like he hadn’t expected to sleep here.

Matt’s crashing on someone’s couch in Bushwick for a few nights and HoCho caught a ride home with his girlfriend earlier. It’s less than an hour’s drive home to Newark at this time of night, but he knows without asking that Ed and Evan have both stayed behind for him.

He doesn’t know whether his lips are still kiss-swollen or his eyes are still puffy and red-rimmed, but he knows neither of them would say anything either way. Ed’s been around since this thing began; he’s always understood more about this than he’s ever let on. Evan’s been around long enough to know not to ask questions. “Did you cab it or walk?” Ed asks.

“Walked,” Frank says, rubbing his cold hands together. Evan stirs in his sleep, sucking in a wet breath and rubbing his eyes. He grumbles something unintelligible. “Evy,” Frank calls softly. “We’re going.”

Evan groans and stretches. “Yeah, I’m awake.”

It’s a quiet, grim walk to the 24/7 parking garage a few blocks down the road from the hotel. Their breath hangs in the air, their footfalls heavy on the wet asphalt. Frank can’t help but feel his age: his bones heavy and worn and stiff from the night’s exertion.

The drive back to Jersey is quiet. Evan’s asleep again before they even make it into the Holland Tunnel. Ed’s humming along to whatever’s on the radio. Frank tries to move his mouth around the familiar words, but he can’t. He curls up against the ice cold window, watching the city lights fly past, trying not to remember every other time he’s driven this stretch of road.

_Otter half-asleep behind the steering wheel, Mikey’s massive wallet of burnt CDs on his lap, flicking through obscure British bands, Ray snoring softly against a box of merch, Frank curled up in the passenger seat, sneaking glances at Gerard in the rear view mirror…The way his stomach would tie itself into knots whenever Gerard met his eyes. The hesitation between them before they realized what this thing was between them, the fumbled drunk fucks in nasty club bathrooms that Gerard wouldn’t remember in the morning, the way they’d make room for each other in every relationship they ever stumbled into._

It’s too late. He’s too old. It’s been over for too long. There’s no point remembering.

— 

Ed drops Evan off first, then pulls up in Frank’s driveway. “I’m around,” he says, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He doesn’t look at him. “If you need me.”

It’s casual enough that Frank doesn’t think he expects an answer. He gives one anyway, a quick nod as he grabs his bag. 

The house is dark and quiet. A few of the dogs come running, Sweet Pea snuffling and yapping until he shuts her up with a belly rub. It smells like _home_ , like dogs and children and dinner, like old wood and old love. He dumps his bags and toes off his shoes, hangs his jacket on the hook that has the least shit on it.

He takes the stairs two at a time. Jamia’s asleep, her back to him, a pyjama-clad shoulder barely visible under the covers. He peels off his sweater, his shirt, his belt, his jeans, his socks, shucks everything to the floor with no concern for anything but getting close to her.

“Baby?” she croaks sleepily when he gets into bed and reaches for her. She turns in his arms, rubs her face against his cheek, presses herself back against him. He wraps his arms around her, pulls her close, comes home against her.

Her mouth finds his and then they’re kissing, barely kissing, just her mouth pressed against his and a soft, sleepy sigh leaving her mouth. She smells like sleep and tastes stale and familiar. She hasn’t changed the sheets for a while, never does when he’s on his way home. Everything smells like her and their kids.

“Baby,” she whispers again, slurring in her sleep. “Baby.”

“Shhh,” Frank whispers, nuzzling her nose and letting out a sigh of relief against her mouth. “Sleep.”

“You saw him?”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes blink open, a quiet question in her gaze. He knows what he smells like, knows what he looks like, knows how late he’s coming home. She’s held his breaking heart in her hands for years now, always loved him so feriociously even when he’s loved someone else. He knows she can smell the cigarette smoke on his breath.

“I don’t know yet,” Frank whispers, pressing his forehead against hers and his palm against her heart. It'll be dawn soon, tiny feet on the floorboards and sizzling eggs and daylight. They'll talk then. “Sleep.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Muna's "Winterbreak"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lnps91BM-cs): _Oh, baby I think we both know / This is a love that we won't get right / Still if you said that you wanted / I know I'll always have one more try._


End file.
